Aphelion
by bianca pontellier
Summary: This piece—my first piece, so there's the warning—is a meandering, sensory sort of character study on Dilandau. It's intended as a glimpse into his psyche, and I've probably taken a few liberties in detailing his experiences. This could be something


Okay, let me get the legal blah down and taken care of, and then I'll address just a few other technicalities.I don't own _Escaflowne_; yes, it's true.And were I to be sued—well, my extreme lack of money is my best defense against that, really.In the end, it would be a nice big waste of effort without a lot of profit turnout.Nyah!

And now that that's out of the way, I can to proceed to bastardize _Escaflowne_ however which way I see fit.Whee!

Technicalities?Ah, yes.I notice that the title of this piece is obscure.Some of you might recall it from a very in-depth astronomy course, if you ever had the pleasure (or displeasure) of that.Otherwise, let me spare you a trip to the dictionary:

aphelion—the point farthest from the sun in the orbit of a planet or comet.

Thematically, that should make more sense to you in the context of what follows.At least I hope so.Finally, I ask everybody to bear in mind that this is not only my first post ever, but this so happens to also be my very first _Escaflowne_ fic.I'm a little out of my element here, but what the hell.If it's worth your time, tell me what you think.

_I love, I love_—do you really?is that possible?—_yes, I love the face_—a pale snapshot of defeat—_and the kiss-parted lips_, _and the gurgle that empties out the soul when the body is dead and senseless_._And the soul is flown_, _it's up in the air_,_ and I breathe it in_, _and I capture it_, _and it's mine_._A soul for my very own_.His:to keep, to pet, to exalt.Traveling from lungs to brain, like smoldering flakes of tobacco, so addictive, so scorching at first—funny how all at once, the conscience can rise up in protest—but later so desired.

_It's mine_.

Endowed by the souls of hundreds, sucking off their vitality like a tit, being moved by it, forward, faster, propelled in this queasy delight, renewed vigor—yes, all along, without a doubt, it kept him going.Like nothing else.

"Tell me what it is," Folken had one time said.It was worthy of scrutiny:such sudden softness, like the scalp of an infant—why?"Tell me the source of this, and everything."

(so then he could help you; you were scared, but you could be discharged, and things would fall quiet again, into that perfect, pretty bliss again, that pasture bliss, that rolling fields, hide-and-seek story-time happiness, sublime little-big house on the fucking prairie)

_I held out_._Because I found something new and better than that_._I made the way things work work for _me.

He recoiled from the helping hand as if slapped.The arm lost momentum and shrank back to its master's side, where it turned cold and unfeeling as steel.It grew claws.

That was him; that was Strategos.

_Always dying to say something unanswerable_.

The palm closed into a fist.The warmth receded back into its private territory, where Dilandau secretly believed it always belonged.A total breakdown in professionalism—that was certainly something he would never permit._Who would have guessed?_ he remembered thinking.Such a warm gushiness inside of the Strategos, like a little candy for Valentine's.One of those nasty surprises:you bit into it, because your tongue approved of that chocolate shell, but then the teeth broke through, and you nearly barfed:creamy nugget filling, absolute sabotage!

The outside was very important, and a lot of times it was a lie.

Following the brief exposition of Folken's startling creamy nugget goodness, Dilandau had encountered some troubles.His yellow brick road wasn't a smooth ride anymore; as a matter of fact, it was overwhelmed by steaming, shit-pile misfortune.For love of himself and a total lack of objectivity, he considered his life the personal shitting grounds of Lady Luck.In short, he ceased to glide.It had been easy for him to attribute this upset in serene self-containment to the subliminal undertones of failure emitted in Folken's hey-now-are-you-sure-about-this-whole-mess diatribe.

Although rebuffed, a period of solemn self-examination—a month, maybe two; three?time is time is time is time; it keeps rolling, and you get lost—a period of hard soul-searching in front of every mirror and reflective surface—the bottom of a metal pot, spooned clean of glompy oats, the buttonhook, the blade—and he had lost a good lot of time, staring at that reflection and sensing something inherently wrong therein.

It was not a bad face.It suited all functional purposes—he could very well blink and smile and show teeth and offer a wide variety of expression—and then some:it was something to behold, and most everyone appreciated it.They would gawk, and at first, it was a center of much anxiety._They see it_, he would think, applying his fingers to his mouth and gnawing them sore._Something is wrong_, _and they know_.Tentative, he would inspect every groove of that mirror-face, superficially pleased, but sensing that there was something beneath, something more genuine.Something unwearable.

All right, that had been a shaky year, not one of his best.But he was certain that these were everyday rigors that broadsided _everybody_.Adolescence was formative, still, and prone to frailties.Outwardly, he betrayed no indication of his turmoil.Smooth and connected, foot follows foot:the first exhibition of the Dragon Slayers had been an awakening._I walk_, _I pick up one foot_, _I put it down_, _I repeat with the other_._I smile for everybody_.But the mechanical process was interrupted by an all-at-once revelation.

It was his first foray into reality, and there along the parade route the faces of normalcy flanked him.Bankers and clerks and bums, all alive and throwing up their hands—it was there that he discovered a welcome reassurance.The warm, spongy sensation of gloating overtook him, because right there, in an instant, as though god-delivered, it came to him.He was special, outside of this world.This was the common mass, generic and completely loathsome, that god-awful lunch lady brand of ugliness abounding in force.Loving him, adoring him:yes, he was really something, all by himself a big show, the stuff of legends.

The beauty that had once seemed to befit a flower rather than a soldier now became a point of peculiar irony.It was better this way, he realized.It came with an expectation, something automatic and instinctual that would be surprised to learn otherwise.

All along the way, he laid snares for hearts, baiting them with a fatal smile.The papers said he was beautiful; the people said so.And they said more:they said he was pure and good and brilliant and everything, all of this prime fodder for ego-masturbation.

He mounted a personal recovery, a landmark as unnoticed to the outside world as the pitiful trials of yester-fuck.The mirror finally cooperated.It reported his glory dutifully, lovingly.It was so.It really was.He buried those doubts deep within his well-trained self-esteem and would never again know them.

_Hello_, _darling_._How do you like it?__You have everything now_._Everything is yours_._The world is splitting open beneath your feet like a watermelon_, _everywhere you stomp_.

The days of confusing duality were likewise done.He sent her to the nether regions of the subconscious, to emerge only in dreams.He banished her and her woeful rumination of green fields and the stars that arced above, bright, stupid confetti.

_You go on making a meal of other people_'_s lives_.This was her last desperate stab in the waking world._You haven't got a soul_.

_But I have yours; and I have _theirs._I'm keeping them_._And I'll get more_.

All righty, that's a wrap-up.That was basically just a tiny character study of Dilandau, who (in my opinion) is probably the most dynamic and interesting of the series.I have no clue where this is going, or if it's even going at all, but thanks for giving it a go.;)

Ta-ta for now, you guys!I'm over and out.


End file.
